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I scanned the room. Residue of fingerprint dust appeared at various touch points.
Milo said, “We got a bunch, mostly one set, likely hers.”
He was right. Nothing had happened up here.
We left the house and returned to the sidewalk.
“So,” he said, “any way you can see fit to give me the name of the daddy whose kid didn’t like him?”
I said, “Tyler Hoffgarden.”
He blinked. “Just like that? No confidentiality issues?”
“Custody cases are public record.”
“Once they squabble and put themselves out there, no protection?”
“Not unless you can get a suppression order.”
“Who does that?”
“People with serious money,” I said.
“Regular folk are fair game.”
“As always,” I said. “The main thing is the kids don’t become fair game.”
Noise from beyond the tape zone caught our attention.
Moe Reed, heading our way from up the block, had been waylaid by two women who’d come out of flanking houses on the east side of the street. One Colonial, one Mediterranean, each with a Range Rover in the driveway.
The women stood side by side, hands on hips, a mini-gauntlet. Both were in their thirties, slim, attractive, and well tended, wearing black cashmere tops that ended mid-thigh, leggings, and Technicolor running shoes.
A pair of blondes, one uniformly honey-gold, the other platinum alternating with black tips and intentionally irregular black roots.
Black tights for All Blonde, flesh-colored for her brindled friend. As if part of a dance routine, each of them freed a hand at the same instant and began wagging index fingers at Reed. Polished nails sparked in the sunlight, setting off tiny, luminous dots of color. Pretty faces scowled.
Unloading on Reed. The young detective tolerated it with Buddhic calm, was about to respond when Honey spotted Milo, pointed to him, and asked Reed something. Whatever he said caused her to turn her back on him and march toward us, her companion following close behind.
Milo said, “Time for public relations, hold on.”
Loping toward the women, he met them at the tape line, did his own listening for a while though he appeared distracted. Finally, he said something that seemed to mollify them. They started to leave and I heard him say, “Just one more thing, please?”
Platinum-and-Black said, “What?”
Her volume must’ve made him conscious of his own. He dialed down, spoke for a fraction of a minute, listened for a whole lot longer.
An avuncular smile failed to pacify the women as they headed for their respective front doors.
Milo returned, shaking his head, and checking his phone before pocketing it.
I said, “You’rethe one in charge? Fine,enoughwith the disruption, open the street so we can take our kids to school and get our daysgoing.”
“You could hear all that?”
“Nope.”
He stared at me. “That’s pretty much word for word except for acouple of F-bombs.” He laughed. “New generation of mothers, can’t imagine mine cussing like that. How’d you nail it?”
